Dad's closet took up the space of a small room. It was large enough to hold a bed, and it did when was necessary not to treat it instead as a table. I approached those clothes hanging from the bars and pulled off a suit that I wanted to wear. It was very simple, kept dark colors. When I put it on, naturally it showed to be too large for my body, however whenever it is that I put on new clothing I always feel like my body has changed. My face has changed. I don't feel like I'm looking at the same human anymore. A door slammed from across the house and I quickly turned out the lights and hid underneath that aforementioned bed, blazer and all. Before long Dad came into the room, I was too scared to open my eyes so only had my ears to discern his gait. My eyes stayed closed. Grabbing my throat and pulling me out from under the bed, I still could hardly gather my senses yet knew that he had found me. He threw me onto the floor and began hastily yet clumsily pulling off the vest while holding my down by my throat. I want to wake up. I could feel myself making my way out from the dream and into sleep paralysis, but he was still there and I still couldn't breathe. I did everything I could to turn my body over off its back to avoid drowning in my own spit but couldn't until the paralysis finally broke half a minute later. I coughed all over myself, drank some water, wrote down a summary, then went back into the dream. I had only slept for three hours. We weren't exactly on good terms after that, but I still had a home to sleep in which is all that I could ever ask for. In stead of a stable supply of food and groceries, I starved myself many times while I could do nothing but watch as he spent his money on things like guns, renovations, and really weird old baseball cards, citing them to be investments. It was his money after all, and I was an adult. A loser jobless virgin jackass fucking dickhead antisocial hikikomori adult with two failed interviews and thirteen rejected applications in two months. I have no reason to complain. The bread, meat, vegetables and cheese still all tasted amazing when they eventually came to prevent my death and protect me. I cannot wait. Every effort I made to grow closer to my family members seemed to result in disaster and threats. When I shared my art and achievements, they were disregarded, oh please let them just be disregarded, or they were met with wonder whether they would suffice in making a living for me and suggestions that I spend my time with something else. A living. I can hardly imagine living the next ten years. I can acknowledge that I need food to survive. I need electricity to feel. It's simply a pastime. I wish I could have communicated that. I wish it wasn't so taboo to show textual depictions of elementary schoolers having the skin on their backs sliced open as long as it contrasted off some kind of later described message or feeling. I don't know if you have the aperture for it. I don't know if I have the fingers for it. The renovations consisted of creating staircases and catwalks which would create a second floor of sorts in one of the rooms. Here would be grown mushrooms and the like. I witnessed, and he asked me if I would help him then with those cards I mentioned. Something to do with organizing, packaging, or helping him resell them. I refused. The responded with threat was that I would be kicked out, my things trashed, and a previously promised metaphorically sweet thing taken away from me. I took a handful of the cards and began tearing them into pieces. Before he could grab me again to enact punishment I ran out the front door into the street. I kept running until reaching a wider and more active roadway. I went out in front of the cars as they drove a weak and desperate 30-40 MPH hoping they would hit and kill me, but it was always slow enough that they braked and evaded. There was no easy way to kill myself in a two-mile radius without people to ruin it. I dropped down onto the sidewalk in the fetal position and waited for anyone to come. Before long my wrists were grabbed and cuffed by a female police officer with her male colleague. I didn't pay much attention to their words. I remained mute. She talked to me while we drove to the station in her car. There was some sense of empathy for the first time in a while I felt. I cried, but never responded. The room I was dropped off at was mixed between both men and women who would be waiting for further processing. The room was wide with many tables, uniformed people at those tables scratching away at papers. This one large boy around my height yet must have been twice my weight approached me and began throwing his body over mine. He asked me if I liked some obscure childish show or game, I didn't know what it was but I got that impression from the name. I chose not to respond, but this only caused further petitioning. I met eyes with an employee and asked if they could help get him off of me. Ignored. Soon enough I was processed and my clothes removed to be replaced with a plain white women's uniform. It was baggy enough that calling it a women's uniform should have been pointless. I held in my hands for the last time that green dress with the nice pockets before I had to surrender it. The doctors examined my body for cutting and scarring before digging new syringes into my skin. They pumped a freezing cold liquid into my navel, then into my wrists, my throat, finally my eyelids were held open and it pierced my cornea. My entire body and mind were numb as I followed instructions to where I would be sleeping. The girl I would be staying with. I didn't greet or look at anyone in the eyes. Then, I was let to roam free, just like that. The hallways exited into a central room many floors in height as balconies looked down below. I ran into and met another girl staying here on these catwalks. "Do you have something you want to say to me?" She spoke despite not looking in her direction. I must have been facing her in my drunk wandering long enough to make her think I had business with her. I tried to push the soberness out of my brain into my fingertips but it wasn't fast enough before the girl grabbed my hair and forced my eyes to face hers. I could hardly make out anyone's words. I could hardly make out the world. I needed to curl up somewhere and sleep. She threatened to throw me eleven floors down the balcony before pinning me down with her feet pressing against my ankles at a horrible angle that made them feel like they were going to snap. I almost didn't care if I died. Please don't torture me like this. My mind left my body to wander around my memories and be anywhere else. Fuck you. I can't handle this pathetic shit. I can't take the wallowing in pain and the licking of one another's wounds. Burn everything down if you want. Do whatever you want. Whatever it is, whatever, don't hate yourself. Don't treat yourself like dirt. You can find the good within you and love it without resorting to arrogant narcissistic boasting. Fuck off, I am a proud narcissist. It may seem to you that I'm a worthless human, and the people who have met me probably think I'm worthless. Four years without a job, leeching for food and electricity, asking others to change the way they need to treat me, using valuable government and medical resources when I'm too much of a pussy to kill myself despite the written threats and suggestions, plagiarizing the twenty-eighth episode of a thirty-year-old sorority girl anime for my shit dream diary fallen too much into reality, failing the JLPT despite cheating, terrible untenable GPA, can't draw without references and copying, destined to be banned for self-actualization. Even I believe I have some good inside of me. Right now I believe that. Maybe no one else notices it. Maybe I'm the only one that knows. That child of light is for me to nurture and love in secret. I am my own mother. The people I admire are all assholes and I love them. I am constantly lucid in this world. I eat salami sandwiches to live. I drink orange soda to live. I breathe to live. I can write. I have made. I'm decent at reading in two languages. I can even be proud of my failures when I know I did more than lie in bed on the phone, play shit online children's games, and watch English videos about things that'll never affect me. All my limbs are working and I'm young enough to have no major health issues. My typing speed is fucking amazing and I love this seven-dollar Amazon keyboard to death. I have parents willing to pay for my braces at the mere cost of my privacy and security. I haven't masturbated in four months. My drawings bleed creativity. Better to be killed by someone else than oneself? I one-sidedly resolved my latent internal bickering and grudges with an all-at-once-yet-inexistent everyone who will never hear my voice. My new roommate and I showered together as the doctors watched over us. She was a quiet girl just like me. She didn't pull on my hair or try to break my bones. I think we could be friends. I felt safe. I don't know what the future holds... If they have to pierce my skin with more syringes, they may. If I must ingest more drugs, I shall. I will brush my teeth.